


Sent From Above

by PumpkinWrites



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angels, Gen, Is it an AU? We just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:49:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinWrites/pseuds/PumpkinWrites
Summary: "... are you an angel?"It's been a long, long time since he could really say he truly believed in angels. He'd kinda dropped off with religion after leaving home, didn't really think much of it now. But now that he was seeing this... well, he kinda couldn't really sit there and say it wasn't real. Even if it was just real to him: he'll take a pretty hallucination in his last moments, it's better than visions of Hell or worse.





	Sent From Above

He's hit. He's hit bad. He knows he is, there's no denying that. He's hit through and through in the left shoulder, somewhere between the bottom two ribs on his right side, and right in the notch in his armor, just below the collarbone. He can feel pretty clearly where he's hit, and he doesn't have to look down to know that it's bad. God damn whatever ammo those sons of bitches were using that cut through that Kevlar under his armor like it was butter. Or maybe god damn the Kevlar for being so shit at its job.

It's taken all his strength to pull himself to this shitty excuse for cover. The enemy, it seems however, may be leaving him alone, as no further shots have come close to him. It's not like he went very far from where he went down, someone probably had a shot. But, they know he's done for, probably. No reason to take a little pity and speed it up.

It hurts to breathe. He lets his head fall back to the rock behind him, his armor clattering against it. He reaches up, pulling his helmet off and dropping it at his side. He doesn't need it. Not even the radio, not anymore. Jesus, he's too weak to even call for a medic, not that he thinks anyone's close enough to help him anyway. And his shotgun's too far away now, but he's still got his sidearm. Not as powerful, magnums now just aren't as effective as they used to be, but... well, an unarmored head still doesn't really stand a chance. It gets bad enough, he's still got options.

The sun is hot above him, and he can still hear the gunfire around him when he closes his eyes, but that all doesn't really matter, does it? Not when he's sitting here, behind a rock, bleeding out onto the dirt. Not when he's probably an hour or so away from death.

He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, eyes closed, measuring his breaths so that he doesn't strain the wounds and make them bleed faster. But he feels... something. Some coolness, like he's standing beside an air conditioning vent. He opens one eye, and catches sight of a curious face peering down at him. A human face.

The figure speaks, though he doesn't catch the words, and the excited softness of the figure's tone leads him to believe that the speaker is a woman. It's his first instinct to ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing out here. Not because she's a woman, mind, but because she's not even _armored_. Doesn't she know this is a _battlefield_?

Instead, though, he just closes his eyes again. He's too weak to tell her, so hopefully she already knows. She's probably not stupid.

She says something else, that he still doesn't understand, and a feeling of calm settles over him. It warms his body from the inside out, soothing away the anger and the slight fear. He hadn't wanted to admit that he'd been afraid, he'd always said he wasn't afraid to die, but... well, that'd been a lie. To himself, and to everyone around him.

Something blocks the overhead sun, and he blinks his eyes back open. _Wings_. She has... _he sees_ wings. Wings, and... he swears he can almost see a halo. A faint halo of white light around that head of dark hair. Silver glitters against the white of her clothing, and he has to squint to identify that the glitter is... chainmail? She's wearing _chainmail_?

"... are you an angel?" he finally manages to ask.

It's been a long, long time since he could really say he truly believed in angels. He'd kinda dropped off with religion after leaving home, didn't really think much of it now. But now that he was seeing this... well, he kinda couldn't really sit there and say it wasn't real. Even if it was just real to him: he'll take a pretty hallucination in his last moments, it's better than visions of Hell or worse. He's not sure why he would hallucinate an angel wearing chainmail, but clearly, the figure before him is.

Something about his question, it seems, is funny, because she giggles. It sounds otherworldly, almost unsettlingly so. It's... it's _beautiful_.

He feels his breastplate unhook and fall away, but only by the weight of it vanishing. He doesn't feel very much else after that, at least, not at first. Suddenly, as suddenly as they hit him, the sensations not only of pain, but of the wounds themselves, disappears. He looks down to check them, but to his amazement, they're gone.

He looks up, finding the woman's eyes closed. But he can see dark red patches spreading and growing from specific points in her shoulder and chest, and even though he somehow knows that it's blood, it doesn't even faze him. At all.

More gunfire rings out, louder than it's been since the woman's--the angel's appearance. Her body jerks, her eyes fly open, quickly turning skyward as she lets out a shocked, rattling gasp. Before he can sit up, grab his breastplate and helmet and move to help her, she rises and turns toward the advancing soldiers. When she does, the fallen one can see bullet holes peppering her back between her wings. They're there, plain as day, but these ones don't bleed, except for one at the back of her left shoulder.

That one's in the same place that the exit wound to his shoulder was. As crazy as it sounds, it's almost like she just moved his wounds to her body. Most of the wounds on her back close up slowly, like riverbed sand or mud sluggishly flowing back into place, leaving the bleeding one and the stains it's causing to her clothing. Suddenly, her wings flare open, and he almost flinches when he sees how ragged the white, purple-tipped feathers really are. Her face and hands had seemed so immaculate, it was shocking. Almost disturbing, even. The wound on her shoulder vanishes, the bloodstains fading with it. The whole process looked like watching footage of a successful hit, but played backwards. Like she was being shot in reverse. 

The advancing soldiers halt, then hit the ground as she turns back around to find him staring, transfixed, on the scene before him. He's only managed to pull his breastplate halfway back on, helmet still lying abandoned nearby, and he struggles to at least finish pulling on his breastplate, so he doesn't look like a complete idiot.

She laughs again, the same pretty sound, like bells, or windchimes, like sugar for his ears, and wanders away, breezing across to where he dropped his primary firearm. She picks it up and returns to his side. Her wings stay outstretched, some strange shield against further attack. And though, realistically, they can't possibly be that helpful, he believes wholeheartedly that nothing else will be able to harm him. As long as he can see her, that is.

She offers out a hand, and it's clear that she means to help him up. He takes the offered hand and pulls himself to his feet. After he lets go, but before he can even register that she's moved again, she's picked up his helmet, plucking it from the dirt and holding it out to him.

When he accepts it back, the angel smiles, reaches out and catches his jaw with one gentle hand. When her skin touches his, he feels an overwhelming sense of not only strength, but of something not unlike _bloodlust_. Words and feeling overtake his mind, as if they were being poured into his head through her fingertips, and after a moment, one word becomes crystal clear. A single word that overwhelms his thoughts until he can't help but speak it aloud.

"... Emily?"

The angel nods, gives him a bright smile, and releases him, allowing him to put his helmet back into place. Though by the time he sets it back on, the angel has vanished, if she was ever really there at all. The soldier picks up his shotgun, cocking it with a satisfied grin, and takes aim from behind cover.

Today, he thinks, wasn't a good day to die anyway.


End file.
